Vs Enemy Unknown
by DumbleDoraTheExplorerX
Summary: The G8 are thrown into psychological chaos when an unknown enemy starts terrorizing them. US/UK
1. Chapter 1

**~Intro~**

**(The night before a meeting...)  
**

* * *

After a shameful amount of begging, America eventually persuades England to watch a Japanese horror movie with him. It took some subtle mentioning of America's previous, much cuter incarnation and his patented puppy-dog eyes ©, but eventually it did the trick. Try as he may, England just can't resist America. Especially when he yearns so badly for his acceptance.

The two are sitting together on the couch, America with his legs up protectively and his face buried in a pillow and England seated beside him. About halfway through the movie, a monster bites the head off of an unsuspecting victim and America absolutely screams bloody-murder. Shaking like a leaf, he leans into England as close as he can get and holds onto him for dear life. With his super strength, he has the potential to inadvertently reenact "Of Mice and Men" with England, but it seems that, through some godly miracle, America manages to keep himself from cutting off England's circulation.

"EEEEEK! OH MY GOD!" Clinging to England as though he may try to escape, America's shrieks ring inside his ears like massive church bells. Over and over and _over_ again. "AHHHHH! SO SCARY!"

At this point, America has all but wet his pants and is closer to England than even a lover would have been. An invasion of personal space, but England doesn't have the heart to try and push him away—and doesn't even really want to. It's not a bad feeling, being this close to America…Dare he say, he actually…kind of likes it?

When the movie is finally over, America wipes tears from his eyes—though, he denies having cried—and praises himself for bravely having gotten through the entire movie. Sighing, England shakes his head and lets out a little laugh. Despite his hero-complex, America is one hell of a crybaby.

"You stupid git. If it scares you that much, then don't watch it. Only an idiot like you would deliberately watch something that scares you so much." England teases with an amused smile. Honestly, America must be a closeted masochist of some sort; he just seems to love tormenting himself.

"But I'm a hero!" America protests. "It's my job to watch things like this."

"That doesn't make any sense, idiot." Brushing it off, (there's no use in arguing with someone so stupid) England lets out a yawn and then stands up. "Well, I'm off to bed, then."

"Wait…_wait_!" Terrified, America latches onto England's shirt like a parasite. "You can't go to sleep before me! I'm scared! Please, sleep with me tonight!"

"Eh!" Blushing, England hastily removes America's hand and then shoves him away. "Don't say stupid things like that, idiot. You're not a kid anymore." He chides.

Using his best pity-me stare, America pouts his lips and his eyes begin to water a little; a maneuver he's used successfully in the past against Japan when trying to get him to attend a Christmas Party. As expected, it isn't long before England lets out an aggravated sigh and—albeit unwillingly—acquiesces. "Ugh…fine!" he mutters.

America waits for it.

"Idiot."

* * *

Curled up by England's side, America dozes soundly with his head on England's torso; England can feel the vibrations of America's snoring in his chest. He notes, a bit disdainfully, that America is drooling on him, but lets it go. The US looks too comfortable to wake; especially over something so trivial. Having observed him for quite some time now, England also notes that America regains his youthful innocence in sleep and is, once again, very cute. In England's opinion, he looks better without Texas; younger too. More like his old, innocent self. What happened to him, Britain wonders? Sure, USA may still _look_ cute now, but the way he acts is far from…where did England go wrong? When did the US become so…self-righteous and hateful?

"I'm never going to fall asleep with your fat arse crushing me…" England mutters to himself. Certain that America is asleep, he doesn't expect America's almost immediate response.

"I'm not fat!" He shrieks, sitting up. "I work it off at the gym!"

"You're awake!" England gasps. America just curls up again and hides under the blankets.

"All of a sudden, I'm scared again." He says, shaking ever so slightly. "Even with you here. I just got a weird feeling." Warily, he peaks his head out of the covers and looks around the room, dimly lit with the moon's bluish rays. He sees nothing out of the ordinary, but to be certain, he gets up and turns the lights on.

Nothing.

Although he may be on the verge of paranoia, he decides to check the bathroom and closet as well. Then, getting on his knees, he lifts his bed's comforter and checks underneath.

Smirking, England taunts the younger a bit. "You really are a child. Checking for monsters under the bed after watching a scary movie."

"Shut up!" America snaps. "There's definitely…something here."

Noticing a blatant shift in America's tone, England arches an eyebrow. "What is it?" he asks, a bit nervous. "Your voice sounds weird." Something is wrong. America _never_ sounds this serious...

There is a long, nerve-wracking pause before America says anything.

"Britain…" His eyes don't meet England's once; Instead, they are intensely fixated on something else. "I think... you should see this…"


	2. Chapter 2

If winters in the states are "nippy," then Russia's winters are flesh-devouring. There is simply no other way to describe the bitterness and pain of temperatures that rarely rise above freezing. General Winter is a very cruel Master, indeed.

Thankfully, due to the week-long meeting here at America's house, Russia is allowed to enjoy a couple of 'warmer' nights away from General Winter's cruel grasp. Something the other countries take for granted, but that a forsaken soul like Russia counts as a great blessing. If only his ice-like heart could be allowed to thaw here forever…in a golden paradise where it's warm and bright and sunflowers bloom.

To him, just being here in such a blissful world is nothing but a taunt. A starving animal who begs for food that is close enough to smell, but not to eat. In the back of his mind, Russia knows that this is only a dream for someone like him…but he can't help but be caught up in the fantasy. Even if it is as out of reach as he is out of mind.

Since the autumn air is a warm and welcomed relief to him, Russia keeps the windows open and sleeps on top of the blankets. At points there is a chilly breeze, but it's a far cry from what he considers to be "cold." In fact, he finds it refreshing; like an ice-cream cone on a blazing-hot summer day. Though Russia hates General Winter, it's what he's used to and what he knows. So, despite his dreams of a warm place with sunflowers, there is always a bit of comfort and familiarity that he finds in the cold. As unpleasant as it may be.

Turning on his side, Russia wonders if he and America will ever be able to reconcile. Although Russia is no longer communist, he still overhears the US referring to him as a "commie bastard" from time to time. With all the antagonism between them now, it is hard to believe that they were ever so close. Russia's first true friend… now one of his greatest adversaries. And no matter how hard he and America try, the bitterness between their people can't be forgotten. Or rather, _won't_ be. It's a grim reality that they both feel powerless to change. If things continue on this way…will Russia be despised and isolated—company only to dark, brutal winters— for the rest of his life?

_**KNOCK**_

_**KNOCK **_

_**KNOCK**_

To say that Russia is surprised to have a visitor would be an understatement. If anything, he's shocked. No one _ever_ comes to see Russia. Not unless they are summoned by him; and even then, they only do so out of fear for their lives.

A bit taken aback, Russia sneaks a glance at the clock: 3:00 AM. Has he really spent so many hours reminiscing? Although he's pleased at the thought of company, he is also a bit irritated that it's at such an inconvenient and bothersome time. What could someone possibly want from him this early in the morning?

Wrapping his favorite scarf around his neck (he feels exposed without it); Russia rolls out of bed and opens the door. Sticking his head out, he scans the faintly lit hallways, but sees nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe he heard knocking on somebody else's door from down the hall? Despite the home's fairly recent architecture, the walls are rather thin, so it's not impossible. Shrugging it off—it's probably nothing— Russia closes the door, only to immediately feel the vibration of someone's fists violently pounding against the wood.

_**KNOCK **_

_**KNOCK **_

_**KNOCK**_

With his back against the door, Russia screws his eyes shut and tries to ignore the fists hammering behind him. All of a sudden he is having flashbacks to the Tatar Yoke. Of his self as a helpless child, screaming, crying, running for his life from the fists that ravaged him and the hands that savaged him so brutally. He remembers doing just this as a child and it's messing with his head. Is his tongue thick in his mouth? He feels the warm sticky substance like blood run down his thighs. It hurts. It hurts so badly…

1:23 AM.

Although he hates to admit it, Russia is terrified. Suddenly there is a strange, eerie feeling in the air. A sort of…_coldness_ that he is not familiar with. He doesn't want to open the door. _Anything_ but that…his twisted mind has already concocted so many terrifying possibilities, and he doesn't want to face any of them. So instead, he just yells, "Who is it? What do you want?"

No answer.

It is 3:00 A.M. when Russia dies.

* * *

_**(A week prior to the meeting)**_

* * *

Earlier, England asked America if he wanted to have tea and scones. In response, America said to make it "hamburgers and milkshakes" and he'd consider. So now, much to his dismay, England finds himself sitting across from America at the local McDon*ld's, watching him devour hamburgers as though they are finger foods. To tell the truth, it is a disgusting sight and he feels a little sick. Just the smell of the so-called "meat" wafting up under his nose is making him nauseas.

"I don't understand how you can prefer that garbage over my homemade cooking." He says bitterly, arms crossed and an eternal glare plastered to his face. Frown-lines and crow's feet can't be far in his future.

As usual, America just laughs him off. Via some grand delusion, England seems to believe that he is a great cook.

"If I wanted to eat your homemade cooking, I'd just eat the couch." America jokes. "Your scones pretty much taste the same."

"Why you…" England doesn't even have the energy to get mad at him anymore. It's a miracle that he doesn't have high blood pressure because of this moronic teenager. Ever since the US was a child, he's been driving England up the wall…Come to think of it; he still _is_ a child, isn't he? 19 is nothing. He can't even legally drink yet. (Though, this has never stopped him from doing so before.)

"So why'd you ask me out?" America questions in between chewing. Unlike certain other nations, America is not exactly gentlemanly when it comes to his table manners. In fact, he could only be less polite if he made a conscious effort to be. Which, depending on how much England yells at him, he might just do.

"Ask you out?" England repeats, flustered at America's choice of words. "This isn't a date, idiot!"

Aloof, America slurps loudly on his chocolate shake; in the same annoying fashion that he does during World Conferences. "Hm…Isn't it?" He arches a brow. "You must really think I'm stupid."

Glaring daggers, England leans over the table and snatches America's shake right out of his hands. "Yes!" He agrees. "I _do _think that you're stupid!"

Surprisingly, America doesn't even try to get his milkshake back. Instead, he kneads his fingers together and looks England straight in the eye. "I know how you feel about me, England." He says calmly. "And I think that the only reason you insist on denying it now is because you're afraid that I hate you. You think that the revolution was an act of vehemence. But it wasn't."

England was not expecting this at all; to suddenly be cornered by America and confronted with his hidden feelings that he's tried so hard to suppress for years. As oblivious as America seems to be most of the time, he is actually dead-on when it comes to reading people's feeling towards him. Most of the time, he just pretends to be oblivious to them, for the sake of avoiding awkwardness. (Turns out he is rather hated.)

But England isn't ready to admit his feelings yet. Not publicly. Especially not in a dirty, crowded, grease-ridden place like this.

"Shut up!" He practically snaps at America like a rabid dog. "And eat your damn hamburger, you pretentious moron!"

Despite England's constant verbal barrages, America's smile is soft and understanding. But there's also a bit of smugness to it. Like he knows that he's caught England's bluff, and is just waiting to rub it in his face. Since he is having so much fun dangling England like a worm on a hook, America decides to taunt him a bit more. It is fun watching him squirm. If not a bit sadistic.

"Do you hate me?" America asks pointblank. So England knows that he is dead-serious, America puts on his best poker-face. In fact, it's so convincing that one might think that he is about to deliver a eulogy.

"What?" England gasps, clearly taken by surprise. He shows all the signs of extreme embarrassment; face red as a tomato, hands shaking and a slick sheen of sweat over his brow. His mortification could only be _more_ apparent if he was advertising it with a neon sign. "Why are you asking me something like this so suddenly?"

Although he would like to, America can't tell Britain the real reason that he wants to know. Not now…Things between them aren't quite right yet.

"Does it matter?" America says a bit harshly. "Just answer the question. It's a simple, 'yes' or 'no'".

Caught in the midst of confusion and surprise, it takes a long time for England to collect his thoughts. He really, _really_ doesn't want to answer. More than anything, he just wants to disappear. No matter how hard he tries, he can't calm his nerves or stop his trembling. He prays that America doesn't notice.

Of course, it isn't long before England realizes that the US is not going to back down, so finally, he says what he knows America is dying to hear.

"No… I don't hate you..."

For a while afterwards, the two sit in silence; America chomping down on his umpteenth burger and England struggling to regain his composure. And then, breaking the tension and uncomfortable atmosphere between them, America says, "Do you remember what you said to me that day you were really sick because of the Panjandrum?"

Britain's reply is immediate.

"No." He says firmly. Incidentally, he doesn't even consider answering honestly. There's _no way_ he's admitting that. But apparently, America isn't letting him off the hook just yet.

"You said, 'I know it may seem like it, but I don't actually hate you. In fact, the truth is…' And then you stopped. I want you to finish it now." Staring deeply into England's eyes, America's uncharacteristic seriousness makes England extremely nervous. Somehow he's never noticed before, but America's eyes are very sharp and probing. Scalpel-like, even. So much so that it seems like they could actually slice Britain's heart right open.

"The truth _is_…?" America presses. It's clear by his clipped tone that he's not messing around.

But neither is England. And when he finally fires back, his tone is equally scathing.

"You already _know_, bastard!" He yells, clenching his fists. "Why do you want to hear me say it so badly? So you can laugh at me?" He suggests, on the verge of tears. That stupid America just loves tormenting him, doesn't he? Sadistic bastard!

Unmoved, America just smirks.

"Maybe."

"YOU BLOODY WANKER!" England bellows. Because they are in public, he has to try very hard to resist the urge to reach out and choke America's scrawny little neck. It takes a lot of self-control, but eventually, England manages to keep himself from violence and instead just tells him off.

"LEAVE! _YOU FUCKING TWAT_!"

Still wearing that knowing smirk, America stands up, easily ignoring all the curious stares that England's tirade has earned him. That's enough tormenting Britain for today. "I'll be waiting, England." He says, grabbing his bags of food and heading for the exit. "For the day that you can finally forgive me."

Seething, England watches him leave with a bizarre mixture of longing and relief. Stupid America. How could England possibly forgive him after having suffered through such an agonizing betrayal? Even now, every 4th of July, England has horrible night terrors and can't eat or work. All week long he feels sick. And he is forced, time and time again, to endure this bullshit_ every single year_. All because of that thoughtless, heartless, brainless idiot…

Damn it. If only England _could_ forgive him. Then all of the bad blood between them could simply be forgotten; swept under the rug like the dirt that it is and they could live happily ever after like they once did. But deep down, England knows that it will never happen, and that it's just a silly dream. And unlike America, he doesn't dream big. He's been disappointed by reality one too many times to ever dream again...

After a long mental debate with himself, England's guilt eventually gets the better of him, and in an attempt to make amends, he buys a chocolate milkshake before heading back to America's house.

* * *

**A/N**: Hm...In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have written this in present-tense. I have no idea why I did that. It's a little too late to change it now though, isn't it? So I guess I'll just apologize now for my horrid misuse of tenses and my war-like butchering of grammar. Sorry. Haha. Also, I promise that no one will figure out where this is going. Girl Scout's honor.

Oh, and thanks to anyone who reviewed/favorited/read my story. =) It's always appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

Once the reality of the situation hits him full throttle, America staggers back like a child that's been stricken by a heavy hand; choking on what sounds like a stifled gasp. And then, as though his body has finally caught up to his mind, he lets out a blood-curdling scream; but it's interrupted half-way by a sudden bout of nausea. Dry-retching, America's eyes water and he clamps his hands over his mouth.

Even from where England is sitting, he can tell that America is trembling violently. There's saliva dripping down his arms, and England's not sure, but he might be crying too. Never, in his entire life, has England seen America so absolutely _terrified_. Whatever this thing is, it has the world's strongest nation on his knees.

3:00 A.M. The light goes out.

Parental instincts taking over, England doesn't even think about it when he protectively positions himself in front of America. If someone has to die, then it can't be him. No matter what, England won't allow it.

He highly doubts that America would hesitate to give his life. A hero, after all, isn't afraid to sacrifice one's self if it means saving others. A hero will die fighting to protect those that he loves. England is no hero, but he would gladly sacrifice his life to save America's. And that's because America is one of those people who tries to his best to better humanity. With a strong sense of justice and an undying moral compass, the US has the potential to do good; to be the world's White Knight. Whereas England—burdened by his exhausted dreams and lonesome heart— is just one more person who makes the world bitter…He has no dreams or goals or loved ones to lose to Death. Only unreachable fantasies.

Behind him, England can feel America's erratic and shaky breaths ghosting his neck and tries unsuccessfully to suppress a shudder.

1:23 A.M.

Bracing himself for whatever he may find, England tells America to 'get back' and reaches a shaky hand underneath of the bed.

Both to his surprise and dismay, he pulls out a bloodied scarf, but shrinks back in terror once he realizes that it's still attached to a head.

Stumbling backwards, his eyes widen to an almost painful extent and he releases a scream that he didn't even know he was holding in. Everything he once knew is now gone. His mind is blank. It's like he's watching all of this happen from another perspective; an out of body experience that he has no control over. Is his life just a horror movie to someone else?

Before England can fully register the situation, he's distracted by America's desperate kicking and screaming and flailing around. Frantic, he grabs England's hand and struggles to keep hold of it. Something is pulling him by the leg, but he doesn't know what.

"ENGLAND!" He pleads tearfully. Desperately, England tries his best to not let go, but his hands are slickened by nervous sweat and gradually, America's hands slip away from him.

_"ENGLAND, HELP!"_

Like a bullet to the chest, fear paralyzes England's body. Desperately, his mind screams at him to move—GO SAVE AMERICA, NOW!—but his stubborn body refuses to listen. It's as though he's being held captive by some ungodly power—although he knows it's just his own cowardice. _MOVE, FUCKING LEGS. MOVE! _He screams at himself over and over again, but it's all to no avail. Tears streak from his wide eyes and he feels vomit rising in the back of his throat. Oh God…Oh God _no_…Please _anything_ but this. He can hardly breathe because he's shaking so violently. No, damn it, he's hyperventilating. INOUTINOUTINOUTINOUT. His breaths are so shallow and sporadic that he thinks he might faint.

And then…everything goes quiet. No more screaming or sounds of struggling. Even England's throbbing heart—so loud in his ears and throat— seems to have frozen. Is America…Could he _really_ be…?

Overcome by hysteria, England collapses to the floor and hides his tear-stricken face in his arms. Nothing matters anymore. Everything…it's all over. He doesn't care if he dies anymore. Let that monster or whatever it is come and get him too. That way, if nothing else, at least he'll get to be together with America in the grave.

Sobbing, he waits, but nothing happens. It's as though he's being taunted. Now that he wants it to come, it won't.

"COME ON! D-DON'T YOU WANT ME TOO!" He shrieks at nothing. "COME GET ME, YOU FUCKING B-BASTARD!"

Suddenly, he feels a presence looming over him; feels the eyes piercing his back. A tentative hand touches him and England violently hits it away.

"England!" America says, startled. "England, are you ok? What happened?"

"America!" In total shock, England shoots up like a rocket into space and gapes at him with wide, disbelieving eyes; could America _really_ be there? Just to be certain, England's shaky hands reach out to touch his face, and with a worried smile, America squeezes them in reassurance. "England, what's wrong?" He questions.

What the hell is going on? This isn't right. No, this isn't right at all. America looks fine. And the scarf...Where did the scarf go? How did England even get here? He can't remember. Was it...all just a dream?

"What happened?" He asks America, trying his best to regain his composure.

With a worried gleam in his baby-blue eyes, America gently caresses England's hands and smiles; when America wants to, he sure can look endearing.

"Dude, that's what I want to know." US says. "I just woke up and randomly found you here on the floor like this. You ok?"

It takes a while for America's words to sink in. Everything felt so _real_…there's no way…But maybe…maybe he really _was_ just dreaming. Yes, that has to be it. Perhaps, on some subconscious level, he was far more disturbed by the horror movie than he realized, and just suffered a horrible night terror as a result. That has to be it. There's no other explanation, is there?

"You're all sweaty." America notes. Disdainfully, he scrunches up his nose. "You smell like France, man. Take a shower."

It's true, so England doesn't argue. His entire body is gleaming with nervous sweat and his pits are downright rank.

"Yeah, fine." UK agrees. "I'll go shower."

* * *

Naked— save for a loose robe— England grabs a towel and rubs his hair dry. In bed, America watches and waits for him. Unlike before, England smells rather nice now; like French vanilla. It's actually making America a bit hungry.

"France and a few others came by our room to make sure we were ok." America informs him." They said they heard screaming so I told them about your night terrors. But now we're going to have to explain why we're sleeping together during tomorrow morning's meeting." He laughs.

Incidentally, this is only because America would _never, _under any circumstances_,_ admit to being a scaredy cat. He'd rather have rumors floating around about his sexuality than be dubbed a "coward."

Having expected this much, England rolls his eyes.

"No we won't. I'm going to go back to my room." He replies, shaking his hair out. The robe he is wearing—one of America's—is way too loose on him, and America can clearly see his chest and stomach. Nice and taut. Not what he expected of England, to be honest.

"I don't have any clean clothes at the moment and I can't sleep in a damp robe." England continues. It's just an excuse, but he really would like to sleep alone if he's going to be in bed stark-naked. Not to mention, if he has another nightmare, things could get awkward very quickly. "It would be uncomfortable."

"I don't care!" America insists. "I'll never get to sleep alone."

Surly, England face-palms and lets out an aggravated moan. This kid is just as selfish as ever. What a spoiled brat. England definitely taught him better manners than this.

"Of course _you_ don't care." UK growls. "But _I_ do! So sorry, but I'm going back to my room. Besides, I might just wake you up again with another nightmare. If you didn't notice, I tend to experience them rather strongly."

This is, essentially, America's fault. Britain didn't start having night terrors until after the Revolution. But for once, he won't bring it up, or try to lay the blame on America. It wasn't his intention to give England nightmares, after all. Just to break his heart.

"You're really leaving me?" America cries, instinctively reaching his hand out. "Come on England! I'm scared! Please don't go!"

To keep himself from having flashbacks, England bites his tongue. Hard. So hard that he tastes metallic. Whenever America begs him not to leave—"please don't abandon me!"—England can't help but think back to himself screaming those same exact words, and America, with cold eyes, turning his back on him.

Bitterly, England heads for the door and rests his hand on the knob.

"How's it feel, stupid git?" He says spitefully.

Stricken by England's harsh words, America looks at him pathetically; with the same eyes of a beaten puppy. But it's not enough. Unmoved, England opens the door and America's pleading intensifies by tenfold.

"England, I'm sorry! Please, I'm scared!" US begs. "Please, England, please don't leave me—"

But England won't hear America out, and shuts the door midway through his pleading. If he hears him out, chances are that stupid teen will manage to persuade him. And he can't allow that to happen twice in one night.

"_You'll be fine…stupid git."_ He muses, before making his way back to his room. _"You know I'd never let anything happen to you."_

* * *

3:00 A.M.

About a half an hour has passed since England left and America is still wide-eyed. There's no way he's getting to sleep tonight. Cocooned in all the blankets he could find, he wonders if maybe he can sleep with Japan…Eh, but come to think of it, the last time he asked, Japan pulled an "Italy" and ran away as though his life depended on it…

Maybe France will be willing? But knowing that pervert, he will just misinterpret America's request to "sleep together" and use it as an excuse to try to get in his pants. Cold-War feelings withstanding, Russia and he are not nearly as close as they once were, so that's definitely out. (Knowing Russia, he'd probably kill America in his sleep with a pick-ax, if given half the chance.) And America and China have a strictly business-related relationship. Exasperated, America sighs and readjusts his position to try and get comfortable. Looks like he'll have to tough it out on his own tonight. Why'd he watch that stupid movie again? Oh right. Hero.

Caught in a bleary haze of fatigue, he's not really paying attention. So naturally, he doesn't notice the figure looming over him.

1:23 A.M.

* * *

Every time there's a meeting, the G8 manage to inadvertently repeat the Dancing Congress, and this time, Germany isn't taking it lying down. Having had enough of everyone's foolish and nonchalant attitudes, he's about at breaking point and it's starting to show on his usually stoic face. Enough is enough.

Slamming his fist on the table, he screams at the top of his lungs and gives everyone their earful for the day. "Stop acting stupid, ve're _going_ to get something done today, if you vant to talk raise your hand, but not in a vay that references Nazis!" All the usual, completely disregarded mumbo-jumbo. Even through all of Germany's lecturing, Italy is somehow sound asleep.

Calm and quiet as snow, Russia raises his hand. Sometimes, despite his tough reputation, it feels like he is the only peaceful one amidst all of the clashing personalities. "I honestly don't see global warming as a problem." He says with a smile. "I think it is good. I wouldn't mind my place being a bit warmer. This winter has been very harsh and my people are freezing to death and dying on the stre—"

"Opposing opinions will not be accepted!" America interrupts, having wriggled his way out of England's usual chokehold. "We're creating a genetically modified hero to protect the earth. End of discussion!"

Japan nods. "I agree… (But not really)."

"HEY, don't just decide something so important on your own, ya git!" England snaps, unable to resist a chance to yell at America.

"I thought I said to raise your hand if you vant to speak!" Germany bites out. Doesn't anyone here know how to run a meeting?

Having sat there meekly the entire meeting, Canada simply waits for his chance to speak (despite knowing that it will never come). America asks if he can have his coffee, but he drinks it before Canada can answer anyways. It never really is a question with the US, is it? It's usually, "Either you give me what I want (because I'm right) or I'll take it myself." But honestly, Canada doesn't mind. He's used to it by now. In fact, he actually admires America's confidence and strength in his convictions.

"Hey, America?" Canada ventures softly. "I was just wondering…if you noticed that—…"

But before Canada can finish his question, the fighting once again escalates, and America can't pay attention to anything other than France and Britain's seemingly incessant arguing. Honestly, the day they stop fighting will be the day that the earth stops turning on its axis.

Clearly pissed, Britain slams his fist on the table and spits right into France's face. "YOU SMELL~!"

"At least I can cook!" France retorts, shoving England away. "Ass-bouquet!"

"WHAT'D YOU SAY, FROG-FACE?"

"Face it Britain, you're the worst cook in all of Europe! The scariest part of HetaHazard was seeing _you_ in the kitchen!"

Unable to come up with much to defend his horrid cooking, England does what he does best and brings up the past.

"America happily ate my cooking as a child!" He says defensively. "He always said how tasty it was!"

"That's only because he has no taste either! And that's _your_ fault! If he had just become a French territory, he'd be beautiful _and_ have a great palette! He's overweight and tasteless because of _you_!"

"Now hold on right there, you wine-loving bastard!" England snarls. "You can't blame _his_ fat arse on _me_!"

Helpless to his own perversions, France can't help but smirk.

"I bet you'd _love_ his fat arse on you. Hon hon hon~!" Winking, he flips his luscious blonde hair over his shoulder. "But I honestly can't blame you. He's quite the looker, no? He's nothing compared to _my_ beauty of course, but he's on my list of things to do." Across the table, France blows a kiss to America, who dodges it as though he is under gunfire. America, flowers, Venice at Sunset. If it's beautiful, France wants to have sex with it. Doesn't matter if it's animate or not. Or legal, for that matter…

All the blood in England's body instantly rises to his face. He's so angry that he's shaking. "YOU FUCKING TWAT!" he says through gritted teeth. More than anything, he just wants to punch France in the balls; just to wipe that smug smirk off of his stupid bearded-face. But he has an even better, less crude idea.

The cup of tea that England has been sipping on and off throughout the meeting is still hot. Hot enough to make France scream a little, that's for sure. With a devilish grin, England grabs the cup and takes aim. Fortunately for France, however, America realizes Britain's plans and grabs his arm.

"_Don_'t, England." He warns. The way things are going, the meeting isn't even worth saving. At this point, all they've done is make matters worse. So, to spare Germany the further agony of a disastrous conference, America decides to put them all out of their misery.

"Alright, listen up! I'm calling a break." The US announces, gathering his papers (still blank) and standing up. "We're not getting anything done and I'm hungry. You guys can do whatever you want until I call you back."

Initially, there is a collective sigh and moans of protest, but eventually, the other nations give in and go back to their rooms.

And so, on that rather depressing note, the World Conference is adjourned.

* * *

So there you go...I hope this chapter wasn't too shit. XD Oh, and HetaHazard is a parody of Biohazard.

**Again, thanks for all the faves/alerts/reviews. (hearts)  
**


	4. Chapter 4

It's true that Canada isn't particularly noticeable; while he's well-educated and well-cultured, there's nothing about him that really stands out.

America is known for his military and money, Russia for his vodka and cold climate, Japan for his games and technology, China for his food and medicine, France for his wine and romance, Britain for his tea and monarchy, etc... And then there's Canada; the more peaceful, less pretentious version of America, really. All he could do to differentiate himself was to declare the maple leaf and hockey 'his'. Two "non-American" things. And even then, people _still_ can't tell them apart.

Peace personified. That's Canada.

Violence personified...That's America. Honestly, his lust for domination, money and war is insatiable. Stricken by a staggering Messiah-Complex, America doesn't hesitate to force his own ideals onto others. Raping them of their culture, ideas and morals—he won't hesitate at all if it's for the "greater good." He's the strongest, richest and most powerful country in the entire world, so there isn't much others can do to stop him. It's not that countries haven't tried…but in the end, they are always overpowered by his sheer-will and brute-force. With the entire world in the palm of his hands, America can either set them free—like butterflies amidst a summer's golden-paved sky—or he can use his God-like power to crush them into ashes. And if he's not God, then he is the closest thing to Him.

In essence, he is unstoppable.

Despite all this, Canada loves America. No matter what, they're family; and chains of blood bind stronger than those of metal. Sure, America causes Canada trouble, but he causes _everyone_ trouble. And even though America is one step away from being blood-thirsty, he does, usually, have good intentions. Despite his shortsightedness, America's goal is to be a hero; and ultimately, to save the world.

But the US has one major flaw. America _can't stand_ losing. Even the mere thought fills him with indescribable rage. Without hesitation, America will put aside all morals and heroic actions if it means winning. "The ends justify the means." It's a dangerous philosophy that he's lived by since WW2. Use nuclear missiles to end the war. Because in the end, it's worth it. Victory, by any means, is _always_ worth it.

While Canada may love America, he fears him just as much. America has done some less than honorable things in the midst of war—as Japan can definitely attest to. Two nuclear bombs and a looming third attack. To have such gall; clearly, he doesn't give a second thought to the consequences if he sees victory at the end of the road. Human life, to him, isn't so precious— not when such a misguided tunnel-vision leads him in place of a heart. No matter what the challenge may be—no matter how big or small—America _must_, absolutely, win. And he will do anything to make certain that he does. Armed with undying perseverance and an iron-will as strong as his fists, he'll stop at nothing to achieve his goals; which is exactly what makes him so very dangerous.

Canada knows this, and, despite America's compromised morality, stays faithfully by his side. They may fight, but in the end, America is the one who is always there to protect Canada. It's clear that US would stop at nothing to defend him, which is what makes him so innocent. Truly, the US is the epitome of a contradiction; both evil and innocent to a fault. It's just as the saying goes: "The road to hell is paved with good intentions."

With his chin rested in his palm, Canada watches America raid his freezer and, in record-breaking time, devour all of his ice-cream. There's chocolate and vanilla smeared on America's face, but Canada finds it cute and doesn't say anything.

"I thought you really liked ice-cream?" America moans, licking the spoon as though it's the last bit of food he'll get to eat in days. He's so desperate for more that it's endearing. By the way he stares dismally at the spoon, one might think that he is starving. Though Canada knows very well that America's stomach has almost never been empty.

"I do." Canada replies. "I bought two half-gallons..."

"That's nothing!" America protests. "That's only one serving!"

"Maybe for a pig like you." Canada teases. And then, glancing down at America's stomach, he adds, "You're getting kind of pudgy."

An attack on America's weight always hits him like a punch to the face. Call him stupid, call him a bully...but do _not_ call him fat! "America the beautiful" will not accept any insults to his appearance; especially since it is one of the only traits of his that he has to fall back on.

"_You're_ no better!" America fires back. "61.1% Canada! That's the obesity rate in your country!"

Unfazed, Canada just winks. "Maybe we've been too influenced by you?" He suggests.

"**CANADA**!" America whines. "I'm _**not **_fat!" Clearly riled, he pouts and folds his arms across his chest. If this maple-loving, tree-hugging hippie doesn't agree with him soon, things may have to get physical.

"You're not..." Canada agrees, painfully aware of his brother's short-fuse. "But you could stand to lose a couple of pounds."

"How is saying _that_ any different from calling me fat!"

Unwilling to back down, Canada just smiles. America really _does_ need to change his diet. He may not be fat, per say, but he certainly can't be healthy. Not on a strictly hamburger and ice-cream diet. It's really nothing short of a miracle that he hasn't keeled over and dropped dead already.

"You're not fat, America...But you can't be healthy."

It's obvious by his tired expression that the US has heard this all before. From his doctor, from England...from his boss. Pretty much from everyone and anyone who cares about his well-being. And, it's equally clear that he's ignored it every single time.

"Geez, not you too." He moans, rolling his eyes. "Dude, I'm totally fine. No need to worry, ok Bro-ha? About anything."

How could Canada possibly _not_ worry about someone like America? Not only does he indulge himself half to death, but he sticks his nose where it doesn't belong and makes enemies left and right: from Cuba to the Middle East to North Korea. "Not worrying" about America is impossible.

"I can't help but worry about you..." Canada says, his ocean-blue eyes downcast and pensive. "You're always getting yourself into so much trouble..."

After a moment, he adds, more or less as an afterthought, "And without you, who'd be left? He can't—"

"It's ok." America assures with a smile. "You can trust the hero!"

* * *

_"Engwand!" Chibi America smiles and lifts his hands up to England for a hug. Returning America's grin, England picks him up and whirls him around like a carousel. The sky is the same shade of blue as America's eyes, and the grain tousling in the wind all around them is the same shade of golden- blonde as his hair. "Engwand, I wuv you!"_

_Some kind of crippling pain clenches England's heart, but he masks it with a bright smile. "Little man, you've grown so big!" He praises. Not even a week ago, America was so small and tiny, but now, he's grown so much bigger and that much stronger. England can't help but be proud. _

_Holding America close to his bosom, England feels, for once, like he is at peace. Only America can make him feel this way, even in the middle of war and conflict. Frog-faced France may do his best to make England feel like an outcast, but he knows that America will always love him. No matter what happens, __he and America will__ always be together, so it doesn't matter what France and the other European nations think. As far as Britain is concerned, they can all sod off!_

_"Engwand," America says, placing his little hands on England's chest and looking directly into his eyes, "Please don't weave me! I hate it when you go away!"_

_With a little sigh, England puts America down and then ruffles his golden-blonde hair. Since Britain knows it's coming, he's well prepared for the waterworks. Unfortunately, America never does spare him. He's worse than a leaky dam.  
_

_"You always weave me awone!" America continues, his eyes watering right on cue. "This pwace is so big and scary and you always weave me aww awone!"_

_A gust of wind tousles their hair, and the stocks of grain rustle like waves in the ocean. Despite his awe-inspiring strength, America hates to be left alone and is easily frightened. But England never seems to indulge him by staying, no matter how much he begs or how hard he cries. It's tough love, but love nonetheless._

_"America. You know I can't always be with you." England says, affectionately brushing the bangs out of America's face. "I have to go now, so be a good boy and grow stronger, ok?"_

_Annoyed, America pouts and then hangs his head. That stupid Engwand is so mean! Leaving when he only just arrived not even a few hours ago._

_"I hate you..." America mutters darkly. __**"Dwop dead, Engwand!"**_

_And then, spilling tears like a cup of milk, he turns on his heel and runs away._

* * *

When Britain wakes up he has to wipe a pile of drool off of his desk.

Damn. It.

Why can't he stop dreaming of America? Every single time he falls prey to slumber, he wakes up only to remember another painful memory or fantasy of his once-beloved colony. If he can't stop mourning his past like this... then he'll never see his future. He's sick of dreaming all the time. More than anything, he wishes that he could just wake up, and see his relationship with America for what it's become, as opposed to what it once was.

But it's hard to forgive America when he _can't_ forget; especially when the pain is as fresh as it was the day of the revolution. It's like every time England stitches himself back up, he has to tear his wounds back open and watch himself bleed. _Why_? Why can't he just let himself heal...? Why can't he move his legs forward and catch up to America, who left him behind and moved on a long time ago?

Effectively derailing England's train of thought, the door bursts open like a bottle of champagne and America's high-pitched voice grates itself against his eardrums. Honestly, it's _impossible_ not to notice America. Everything about him just screams, "**OBNOXIOUS**!"

"_England_~!" US chimes. "Whatcha doing~?"

Having wiped away a puddle of drool with his arm, England tries his best to look suave, despite the blatant wet spot on his sleeve. Not to mention he was just thinking about the US and how much he misses him, so his face is most likely a bit flushed. Incidentally, America has a terrible habit of catching England unawares and/or in embarrassing or compromising situations. Such frequency might suggest intent, but England decides not to look into it.

"I'm just waiting for you to resume the meeting, ya git." He gripes in his typical "Oscar the Grouch" fashion. "I say we should get it over as soon as we can and spare us all the agony of socializing more than necessary."

England is a little more than shocked when, out of nowhere, he feels a sudden weight on his shoulder and America's breath tickling his ear.

"Come on, don't be that way." America says, his warm breath ghosting the shell of England's ear. Both a visceral and pleasurable response overcomes England when the hair on the back of his neck stands up and he shudders. Too close...America is too close for comfort. And there's no doubt that he felt Britain shudder when he spoke. This definitely will not end well...

Curiosity ignited, and for lack of anything better to do, America decides to toy with England for a bit. Playing "cat and mouse" with England is just too much fun for him to resist. America knows very well how his former charge feels about him...and he knows his boundaries. Even when US was a child, UK was a bit of a flag-crusher. Chibi America wanted to call him "Big Brother" as a term of affection, but England insisted on being called, "Britain." Still, he showed his love for America in other ways. By cooking for him, counting sheep and singing lullabies to lull him to sleep, reading books to him and just all-around protecting him. But he never really did _say_ that he loved America. Only once...when he was very small, and he hands-down refuses to say it again.

Even so, America likes to test England's affection for him. How far can he go until England can't stand him anymore? Is that even possible? Could England ever _really_ hate America?

Wanting to test him further, America seductively whispers into England's ear. "Hey...I'm not planning on resuming the meeting for a while. You wanna do something to pass the time?"

The moment the words leave America's mouth, England whirls around and shoves America away from him as though he is on fire. "What the hell are you saying, you bloody tart!" He yells, trying desperately not to let the excitement show on his face. If he gives into America now, they'll be no stopping him—once America gets a taste of power and control, he can't let it go.

No matter what, Britain won't fall for his tricks. England's the magician here, not America, right? It's England's job cast spells and to hide with smoke and mirrors; for those to never be quite clever enough to figure out his tricks. And it's America's job, as a gunner, to hunt people down in plain sight. England can't be so obvious about his feelings...it only makes him an easy target for a predator like America. Besides...this is probably just a game to the US, anyways. Some kind of passive-aggressive revenge for how England treated him as a child.

"You've always liked denying things, haven't you?" America says, unfazed. Of course he assumed that England would act this way, so he's not upset at being rejected. It's in England's nature to be 'tsundere'. In fact, US would be disappointed if he acted in any other way. A predator enjoys the chase, after all.

Glowering, England's lips tighten into a thin line and crosses his arms over his chest. What a pretentious bastard! Someone definitely needs to knock him down a peg or two. And it just so happens that Britain is more than willing to do so. "The only thing I'm denying is the urge to kick your arse!" He snarls.

After seeing England's less-than-docile reaction, America decides that it's about time to bring out the big guns. Purposely, he lets his bomber jacket slip off of his broad shoulders, exposing an unbuttoned, white dress-shirt underneath. It's the first time in a long while that England's seen him without his jacket, and he can't deny that he looks very good.

Leering—America can see the carnal desire in England's eyes and feel the tension—he makes an effort to subtly expose his chest, all while acting coyly. "You're going to act this way again?" He says, unable to rid his voice of its haughtiness. Just knowing how badly England wants him gives him a kick. Sick, perhaps, but it's how he gets his jollies. (That, and Japan's bondage games.)

"You know England; you don't even really need to say anything." He continues, a bit more blasé. "I know how you feel. Your face says it all."

"Not _this_ again!" England groans. Since he doesn't have much to defend himself with, he can only, once again, resort to denial. "I'm not having this conversation with you again, you little fucker!"

In a desperate, ill-conceived attempt to hide his feelings—despite them already having been more exposed than a celebrity's love-life—England hurls every insult that he can think up at America like grenades.

"You're just a stupid, conceited idiot who thinks that everyone should do whatever you say because you're strong! You may have brawns but you definitely lack brains! And you're a monster! Exerting your will on the rest of the world just because you're self-righteous and think that your way is the best! And what's more, you care more about being rich than about the well-being of your people! You're just a war-mongering, money-hungry brute who abuses his—"Mmphf!"

Smack in the middle of England's tirade, America grabs England's head—threading his fingers through his hair— and crushes their lips together in a kiss.

A warm, sweet, chaste kiss; yet, powerful and commanding all the same. Stunned, England feels his face burning up and his knees buckling. This feeling...its _bliss_. Never, in his entire life, has he felt something so incredible and his dazed mind can hardly wrap itself around the feeling. So foreign... addicting. America tastes good and he wants more, but he is denied.

Satisfied, America severs the kiss, letting his hand gently ghost across England's flushed cheeks before pulling away.

Taken aback—England never expected that—it takes him a while to gather his thoughts . Did America _really_ just kiss him...? What is America doing? Why is he acting this way all of a sudden? He must have some kind of ulterior motive. In the past, America would always shoot down even the tiniest advances from England...but now, he doesn't hesitate at all to return or even to make them. Something just isn't adding up right. Nothing between them has changed; not to England's knowledge. What exactly does the US hope to gain from this...?

Because America never does anything without a means to profitable gain; in America, _nothing_ comes for free.

With a self-satisfied smirk—England is flailing around like a fish trying to breathe out of water— America turns on his heel to leave. But before he goes, he turns back once more just to get a good look at England's flustered face.

"5:00, England." He says, eyes gleaming mischievously. "That's when I expect you back in the meeting room."

* * *

**1:23 A.M.**

Blood stains the walls a bright crimson; but it appears black as ink in the darkness. It's as though God has just carelessly splattered around a bucket of red paint. Everything, from the bed, to the window drapes to the door is absolutely covered in blood. But it's not just blood…its bits and pieces of skull and brain matter, too.

Russia is not sure how much of the blood is his own and how much of it is China's.

It's not his fault. China has had it coming for some time. All Russia wanted was to be his friend…but China just refused to become one with him! It's China's fault for being so stubborn. Completely unprovoked, China tried to attack him, and Russia didn't know what to do and before he knew it, there was blood everywhere!

Shivering, Russia drops the crimsoned pipe and collapses to his knees. It's not his fault. He didn't _want_ to do this. He didn't mean to…There's this voice in his head and he can't get rid of it. It's laughing at him and he feels hot tears prick his eyes. No! Stop it!

Nearing hysteria, Russia grabs his head and pulls his hair, stifling a scream by gritting his teeth.

_It's not his fault!_

* * *

**A/N:** Hm...Should I up the rating? I do use quite a few curse words, and it's a little gory.

**Anyways...****Let me know if you liked it, or if I should just give up...Hah! XD And as usual, thanks for reading! (Hearts)**


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